Page 2 of The Sugar and Spice Bookshop Bakery

Or brown eyes?

Yes, brown. She loves brown eyes. Eyes that shine like horse chestnuts, rich and warm.

Or maybe she’d hoist one of the bags out of the boot herself, and put it down on the pavement, tripping up some divine-looking but moody man who’d curse at her. She’d then run into him at the most inopportune moments for several weeks, his scowl growing bigger every time he sees her, before eventually they realise their dislike of each other has all been one terrible misunderstanding, and they fall into bed and have the most marvellous time, and decide they’re soulmates.

The classic enemies-to-lovers trope.

She loves reading them. Used to love editing them. But does anyone ever really start off as enemies and then fall madly in love?

In Louise’s experience, it’s more likely to happen the other way round: you fall madly in love then end up as enemies. She’d be quite happy never to see any of her exes again.

And then she sees him.

There is a man coming towards her on the pavement, talking on his mobile. A dark-haired Mediterranean-looking man. Too far away to ascertain the exact shade of his eyes, but with his colouring, they’re bound to be brown.

She stands by the boot, watching him getting nearer, hoping he’ll stop. He needn’t fall in love with her, but it would be nice if he’d offer to carry the bags.

But he’s so engrossed in his phone call that he doesn’t even notice her. He’s speaking – what is that? Spanish? Italian?

Definitely Italian.

And then he’s passed by her, without so much as a glance. She can’t help but feel disappointed. She’s never had the looks to turn heads exactly, but she isn’t unattractive. In fact, she thinks she’s pretty good for forty-one. Her face is a little too round, perhaps, and she’s conscious of the crinkly lines under her eyes, but she likes her caramel-coloured, shoulder-length hair with its soft layers and natural-looking blond highlights – at least she hopes they look natural. And people always say she has a lovely smile.

Not that she’s got much to smile about now. Those bulging bags aren’t going to lift themselves out of the boot – whoa! Too much alliteration! This is an occupational hazard, editing her thoughts as if they were words in a book.

The sooner she gets on with shifting her stuff, the sooner her new life can begin.

New life!

Nothing says failure like ditching your job and running back to the small Yorkshire village where you grew up.

Nothing says failure like sleeping in your old bed – single, obviously – in your old bedroom, no doubt with the old posters of boy bands still plastered over the walls. If one of her authors wrote that scenario in a novel, she’d suggest it was a bit of a cliché.

If only she could edit real life the way she could edit things on a page. She’d flip back a few chapters, to the moment right before she sent the final manuscript of Sheila Penhaligon’s latest book to the typesetters.

Fresh start, she reminds herself. New beginning. Elspeth and Sally did it. And she can too.

And it will be good to spend some quality time with her mother. They’ve always got on, yet Louise hasn’t seen much of her in recent years. As daughters go, she knows she’s been a bit of a let-down. The two hundred miles of busy M1 between London and Applethwaite never seemed like an appealing prospect on a Friday night after a busy working week. So many times she’d promised to come up here, only to end up texting yet again, saying she was too exhausted. Instead, she’d stay home with a takeaway and tackle her enormous TBR – ‘To Be Read’ – pile.

But yes, it will be good to spend more time with her mother Elizabeth. Louise just hopes she doesn’t ask too many questions.

‘Louise! You made it!’

It’s her mother, standing on the doorstep of the terraced stone cottage where she’s lived since before Louise was born.

Despite the fact that it’s been a while, her mother hasn’t aged much since Louise last saw her. They are unmistakably mother and daughter – the same round face, broad smile and caramel-blond hair. Only Elizabeth’s hair has silver highlights now and it’s cut short in a practical, no-nonsense crop with choppy layers. Perhaps it’s the new haircut, Louise decides. Perhaps that’s why her mother looks so good for her sixty-five years.

‘Come on, Louise. Why are you just standing there?’ her mother says.

‘I was hoping to bump into a gorgeous stranger who’d offer to carry my bags. That’s how it’s supposed to work when a woman arrives in a new village ready to start her new life. At least, it always does in novels.’

Elizabeth laughs. ‘This isn’t a new village! This is your home! And the only person you’ll bump into standing there is Mr Grundy from number twenty-eight. Or rather he’ll bump into you. I’m a bit worried about his eyesight, poor dear. Anyway, come here and give me a hug. It’s been far too long.’

They embrace right there, on the pavement, Louise with only one arm round her mother as she still has the bag in the other.

‘Right, come on!’ her mother says, walking away from her house.

Louise is confused. ‘Aren’t I staying at yours?’